The bell rang, smooth and chimed—no shrill clang, no clatter. Vermillion's way of announcing the end of the day was like everything else the school did: controlled, refined, just loud enough to cut through thought but never loud enough to startle.
Final period was over.
Isabelle closed her notebook with quiet precision, the soft sound of the cover snapping shut oddly satisfying. Her desk was already neat—notes squared, highlighters capped, and margins clean. She let herself breathe out, slow and even.
Today had been… productive.
Not just in the way she usually measured it—box-checked, curriculum-covered, mind-synced with system rhythm—but something deeper. There was a clarity to the lectures today. A rhythm to them. Her mind had clicked easily into place, like each concept had already carved out space before it even hit the board.
It wasn't just absorption. It was understanding.
